


with coats of dissimilar stripe

by aiineslin



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23153755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: apparently, jorge is the first person that comes to navegante's mind when he needs a pet carrier.(in other words, a street cat adopts navegante and jorge is caught up in it.)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	with coats of dissimilar stripe

**Author's Note:**

> c/w: tigre dies in the end 
> 
> title taken from here: https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/tiger/page-1/7426334/
> 
> other notes: navegante was put on to this earth to make jorge suffer 
> 
> when i wrote "that's nice", i imagined all the power and strength my friend A puts into her non-verbal "please stop talking to me" cues
> 
> i wrote this because i could write this, and the idea kept beating its head against my mind, _and_ i was bored (as you can tell because i'm the first person to admit that the premise of this is pretty fucking ridiculous)
> 
> english is not my first language, so i apologise beforehand for any mistakes made
> 
> h/c -  
> both of them are _very_ good with kids  
> jorge because he talks to them like they're adults, just with slightly less understanding of the world  
> navegante because he taps into that feral curiosity that most kids possess 
> 
> navegante likes animals, and they in turn, adore him

“Daddy,” his daughter is calling. “There’s a man at the door.”

It is 7:30PM, and men at the door this late at night are usually a bad sign. A sigh builds in his chest as he sets down the drying cloth and plate he’s holding. He can foresee another sleepless night, working away in to the wee hours. Beside him, arms-deep in the soapy dishes, Paola frowns.

He is somewhat unsurprised by who he sees when he opens the door; it is Navegante.

What surprises him is that Navegante is in a singlet.

The shirts Navegante wears are not as outstanding as Pacho’s but the man is careful about his appearance to a certain extent – down to the newsboy cap and modestly expensive watches he always wears. 

“Good evening, Jorge Salcedo,” Navegante says. “Do you have a pet carrier?”

Jorge stares at Navegante.

“I found an injured cat. I’ll need to bring him to the vet.”

His ability to adapt has risen considerably since he joined Cali.

“I may have something. From a while back.” Jorge looks out into the street. He can see the movement of a twitching curtain, the glint of eyeglasses peering around the fabric. Mrs. Delgado is a good neighbour who calls the cops at the drop of a coin, and Navegante is as shifty-looking as they come. He bites the inside of his cheek, and says, “Come in and sit down.”

*

The pet carrier sits at the highest shelf, shoved all the way to back, a pink monstrosity with the name BEBE lettered painstakingly in shaky white marker into its side. He hauls it down from the shelf and walks into the living room.

His girls are sitting beside Navegante, and they are silent, entranced by the show Navegante is putting on for them. The pocketknife flashes in and out between Navegante’s outspread fingers, a blur of silvery metal. Jorge groans internally. Paola will _scream_.

When Jorge descends upon them, his girls scatter, barrelling giggling past him and up the stairs. They know – they are terribly smart for their age – that dad doesn’t like them interacting with his colleagues, especially _this_ one.

Navegante doesn’t follow their departure; he is looking at Jorge, and the pet carrier that dangles loosely from his hand. He flicks the blade back into its holder.

“See.” A strangely self-satisfied smile spread across Navegante’s face. “I knew you’d have something on hand.”

Jorge stares at the table. There are no blade marks in the wood.

Movement. Navegante has risen to his feet, and he is holding out his hand expectantly. He follows Jorge’s gaze. “I don’t fuck up my knives.”

A pause. And then Navegante looks at him. If it isn’t _Navegante_ , Jorge will say that it is a look that is designed to elicit pity, a look that is employed by sweet, cherubic children (like his little girls) everywhere.

Unfortunately, it is Navegante who is giving him this Look.

“I don’t know which vet would be open this late at night.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Jorge says, but he follows Navegante to his waiting car.

*

The cat is located quite a few streets away. When they arrive, Jorge understands why Navegante had turned up in a singlet – the cat has been covered with a bright blue shirt. Blood has seeped through the cloth in small, dark patches. Beside the cat, a street kid rises to his feet.

“You promised, mister,” says the kid.

Navegante hands over a folded note without even looking at the child. The street kid grabs the note and melts away into the night.

When Navegante gently places the cat into the carrier, the little creature mews pitifully, hoarsely. Blood drips from an eye.

“I know the way. Let me drive,” Jorge says, and Navegante nods mute agreement, cradling the carrier to his chest.

In the car, Jorge says, “I’m the first person that came to mind for a pet carrier?”

“You’re the only person who I know is well-adjusted enough to have possibly kept a pet before,” Navegante smooths the top of the pet carrier rhythmically.

“You know,” Jorge says, spinning the wheel as he increases the speed, taking a turn sharply. An incoming car from the opposite direction honks furiously at him, and Jorge rests his palm on the horn, blasting a long, drawn-out shriek back. “You could’ve taken the cat directly to me. Since you put the shirt around him.”

“Then he’ll get blood on my seats. I just washed them. It’s easy to clean a shirt.”

“Ah,” Jorge mutters. Now that is a Navegante he is familiar with. “You know, Navegante. There’s a lot of street cats out there. You can’t save them all.”

“ _This_ street cat ended up beside my car,” is Navegante’s response. “Things happen for a reason.” He shoots Jorge an indecipherable look. “Thank you.”

*

“Tigre is doing well.”

It’s the first thing that Navegante says when he comes across Jorge again.

Down by the mess of wires that has been pulled out from the wall, the new boy Jorge is training works at removing his first wiretap. Jorge sees how Juan leans a little into their direction.

“Tigre is - ?”

“The cat.”

He can almost _feel_ the curiosity radiating from Juan.

“That’s good.”

“Tigre is a she, actually.”

“Oh?”

“So she should be called Tigresa.”

“… Okay.”

“But I’ve gotten used to calling her Tigre.”

“That’s nice.”

The lights go out. Jorge inhales deeply. Beside him, the click of a safety goes off.

An abashed, “I’m sorry?” quivers out from near where Juan was.

God bless newbies who know nothing.

*

The cat is sitting in the passenger seat.

Jorge stares at her.

She stares back at him. And then she flops down, and stretches out luxuriously, showing off her belly fur. Long white claws extend from her paws as she does so, and she rolls on to her back, staring at Jorge with her bright yellow eyes.

He can feel Navegante’s gaze on him.

Jorge reaches out and –

“Fuck!”

Beads of red rise to the surface of the long gashes on his arm.

“Why don’t you sit at the back for today, Jorge?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

Navegante doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

“Tigre likes that seat. She’ll scratch me if I try to remove her from it.”

“For the love of -”

*

He sits in the back seat for the next ride he takes with Navegante.

Tigre refuses to be moved. Navegante refuses to help.

The third time, he comes prepared.

Tigre sniffs inquisitively at the tinned tuna he produces from his bag. When he opens it, the cat lights up and begins to meow – loud, plaintive shrieks that cause a few people to glance at them when they pass by the car.

Jorge takes the front seat, feeling almost inappropriately gleeful. Tigre doesn’t scratch him this time; she clambers into his lap, following the tuna.

Navegante only smiles.

By god, does his ass feel good sitting in his _rightful_ spot.

When they reach their destination, Jorge makes to rise.

He feels claws dig into his trousers. Beside him, Navegante has opened his car door and left.

Jorge tries to stand up again. The claws dig in even harder. Tigre looks up at him. She almost looks sad.

“That’s a problem I have with her,” Navegante has bent down, looking into the car. “She becomes clingy easily.”

“Ngk.”

*

“What’s been happening to your pants, Jorge?”

“The cat survived.”

“ _Ah_.”

“I think I may have to start buying more jeans now, amor.”

*

He gets used to the sight of Tigre in Navegante’s car very fast.

When the man can get away with it, Tigre will follow in his car, a little orange queen sprawled proudly across the passenger seat. So far, if Jorge’s sources are correct, the only person Tigre allows to sit in the passenger seat is him.

She claws up Cordova, Juan, Luis. None of them had the patience or the willingness to court her adoration - so they sit in the back seat, and they glare at the cat every time she peers around the seat to stare smugly at them.

Inevitably, a new sicario Navegante is working with smacks Tigre in the face when she bites him.

He is clawed up, of course – but later, Navegante breaks the offending hand with a hammer, and the new sicario is no more, relegated back into the dregs of common street life.

Among all the people who sit in Navegante’s car, it is clear that Jorge is her favourite. She cuddles up to him of her own accord, and she purrs when she rests her head against his chest. Sometimes, when they drive, Navegante reaches over to scratch her absentmindedly when she is resting on Jorge’s chest. She always purrs louder in those moments, turning her head over to receive scratches at the _right_ spot.

*

This affection doesn’t go unnoticed by others.

Pacho is the only boss that doesn’t mind Tigre, and on the drive to the restaurant where he is meeting his new business partner, he even deigns to play with Tigre a little – by way of putting out his finger and drawing it very quickly back when Tigre takes a swipe at him.

It hurts a little whenever Tigre does that, because she is clinging to Jorge while swiping at Pacho, and her claws are sharp and long.

When Pacho exits the car, he says, “She really likes you, doesn’t she?”

“I feed her,” Jorge says, shrugging. “It’s a relationship built on bribes.”

“Ah,” Pacho says comfortably, reaching out a finger to pet Tigre’s forehead. Her eyes narrow and her head snaps up, little teeth showing. Pacho withdraws, laughing slightly. “A true cartel cat.” He looks at Navegante. “It’s true then – that animals like people their owners are fond of?”

“Eh, Tigre has her own mind.” Navegante doesn’t meet Pacho’s stare. “And Jorge feeds her fish. I only feed her kibbles.”

“Mm-hmm.” Amusement glows in Pacho’s eyes. “Alright. I’ll meet you both in the restaurant; Elias has booked a table for me at the Emerald Room.” Before he closes the door, he adds, “You can bring Tigre in, I’ll order salmon for you three.”

As they parked, Jorge finally breaks the silence. “I don’t think he’s ever ordered anything for us before.”

“Time to start bringing Tigre when we drive Pacho,” Navegante says drily, and Jorge surprises himself by letting out a snicker. 

*

It is strange then, that Tigre begins to grow a little skinnier as the year draws to an end.

Her appetite wanes, and she only takes little bites from the wet food that Jorge brings. But her affection remains as strong as ever, and she continues to snuggle up against Jorge every time he enters Navegante’s car.

He raises this question up one day, while they are driving to pick-up Pacho. While he speaks, Jorge rubs his thumb over Tigre’s forehead, watching her eyes dip shut.

“She’s getting a little skinnier, no?”

“She’s an old cat, and she doesn’t have much teeth left, but.” Navegante says, pulling up outside of the large gates. “It _is_ time for her check-up soon, so…” His voice trails off. Smoke curls from his nose as he exhales, his cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth.

“Mm.” Jorge frowns, his strokes slowing down. Tigre looks up at him, opens her mouth and yawns, patting at his hand irritably. “Sorry, cariña.”

*

Abruptly, Navegante goes missing for nine days.

It happens ever so often, Jorge knows – sometimes the man is sent on strange errands that even security isn’t aware of, and those errands are oftentimes bloody and discreet.

He doesn’t pry, he only waits.

Navegante will turn up again when he wants to, like a particularly mercurial street cat.

*

The next time Jorge sees Navegante, the next time they had some time to talk amongst themselves – it is in the outside area of a restaurant they had dropped the Rodriguez brothers and Pacho at. Beside them, the other sicarios and security smoked and talked in their small groups, and behind them – the party went on at full swing. 

The first thing that Jorge asked is this, “How’s Tigre?”

“Oh.” Navegante brings watermelon seeds to his lips, spits them into the undergrowth. One bounces off a blade of grass. “I put her down.”

The world is silent save for the whistle of wind through the tree leaves.

When Jorge finds his voice, to his credit, it does not shake. “Why?”

Navegante turns a pale gaze on him. “The vet said she had oral cancer.” He spears another slice of watermelon on his toothpick. “That’s why her teeth was falling out. Why she stopped eating.”

Unbidden, an image rises to the surface of Jorge’s mind. The broad man with the horrid pink pet carrier on his lap, sitting in the small waiting room that had cheery animal posters stuck to the walls. Did Navegante bring his gun with him when he brought Tigre to the vet?

“The vet said we could start a chemotherapy course. What a world it is, huh? That even cats can get cancer.”

“Why didn’t you…” Jorge’s voice trails off.

Navegante continues eating. He appears to be completely unperturbed, his blue eyes staring glassily at nothing.

“The vet said she had less than a year left. That he couldn’t _assure_ me that the chemotherapy would work. And the treatment will possibly make her sick, even sicker than she is now.” The watermelon seeds he spits out lands on the grass with uncommon viciousness. “It’s not a life.”

Jorge is silent. He can feel his nails digging into the flesh of his closed fist.

“I once saw a tiger in Mexico,” Navegante says. “She was a birthday gift for Félix Gallardo. They put her into a cage and gifted her to him.” He crumpled the empty plastic bag up, hurling it into the undergrowth. “She just sat there, staring out at the party. Later, I found out they had sedated her, to keep her quiet.”

There is a moral here, a lesson in this warped Aesop of a tale, but Jorge cannot quite put his finger on it. All he can think about is the skinny orange bundle of fur and claws that Navegante had brought to him that night so many months ago.

“Where is she now?”

“I buried her under the tree.”

Jorge looks at him, the question unsaid in his eyes.

“Where I first found her. At Avenida Carrera 19.”

*

When he takes Paola and the girls out to dinner, Jorge takes the route past Avenida Carrera 19.

Under the bent, twisted tree whose shade covers half the road, there is an absolutely massive bouquet of wilted and dead flowers.

He drives a little slower. The paraphernalia of a cat-owner’s life has been dumped beside it. A few cat toys, their feathers sticking messily out from the short grass. Unopened cans of wet food and kibbles. A much battered cushion, the stuffing spilling out from multiple gashes. A horrifyingly pink pet carrier.

A frown pinches his brows together.

*

“For you.”

Navegante looks at the postcard and tickets that Jorge had passed over.

“This is?”

He takes the postcard, flips it about.

A tiger looks out from it, its mouth opened in a roar.

“I went to the zoo with Paola and the kids the other day.” Jorge keeps his eyes on the road, as he is supposed to. “They brought in a tiger. Tigress. To mate with the tiger they currently have now.”

“Oh.”

“They were giving out extra tickets with all purchases.” He makes a turn carefully, turning on his signal light – though there is no-one behind them. “You should go. You can pay extra to feed the tigers with the keepers. They give an educational talk along with it.”

He hears rustling beside him, Navegante folding the postcard and tickets up carefully, tucking them into his pocket.

When Navegante next speaks, Jorge can hear the smile in his voice. “Thank you, Jorge.”

“It’s no matter,” mutters Jorge.

The drive continues on in silence.


End file.
